


A Rush of Blood

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The creation of a player.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rush of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fulfill a request over at Westerosoring, to see Petyr's life somewhere between the duel and the start of _Game of Thrones_.

In moments, the blood had stained his tunic and mixed with the dirt to cake to his skin. And she stared down at him not with compassion, or desire, or even love, but only pity. _Spare his life, he’s only a boy, he’s like a brother to me._ He wanted to retch. Though the pain was clouding his judgment, in that instance he knew he was every inch his stature and every bit his birth in her eyes.

He was not a high-born maid and he had never taken to songs. He was smart enough to know life did not always follow plans, and that the heroic end was rare. But surely the demonstrations of love that were sung about moved women, and such a demonstration would be enough. He loved her best, he loved her first, she would see, she would know, and that would be enough.

Scars featured in the songs, of course, as signs of heroic valor. They marked the hero as someone who fought for his convictions, and who convictions were just. They marked men who had suffered for their rewards.  
They never mentioned how the flesh ached as it mended in a hideous way, though he found that wasn’t the worst of it. Everything after that had been a blur of pain and shame, but as he left Riverrun he knew that no one would mistake his scar for something that he had gained while defending what was his. After all, he had nothing.

\----------

When they had been children together, he had allowed himself to believe that his status did not matter in her eyes. There had been nothing then to suggest that it did, but they were children and did not truly understand the burden of duty and the necessities of separation.

He had had no reason to suspect then that there were certain things that would always be denied him. In play, they had all been equals. It had been a rude awakening when he finally realized that she fully intended to continue down her expected path, one which was barred to him. And all his efforts to prove his worth were met with mockery, and the heavy cloak of shame.

In the end, they kicked him out as you would an annoying dog, and now there was nothing for him but isolation and the trappings of his mind.

\----------

Lysa wrote to him repeatedly while he was at his father’s keep. The notes were always brief, hurried messages, stained with tears. They were mostly declarations and pleas for forgiveness and understanding, inelegant things that he burned after reading.

Cat never wrote to him once.

He attempted to forget about it all, knowing there was nothing more that could be done, but at least once a fortnight he found himself writing a long letter to her. He would pace about the keep for hours, mulling over the wording in his head, trying to find the right combination that would clearly communication all that he had never been able to through actions. He was not a man of action, that much had been proven as he laid in the dirt and blood, but he had always been a man of words. Even Cat had remarked upon his skill; at night, he would run through her compliments, and most of those were about his words. He sent the first of these letters, but received no response. Determined, he blamed the raven. In the end he must have written hundreds, thousands of these letters. Most of these were rewrites of that original, as if it were puzzle whose solution he could get at through careful manipulation. At night he worked diligently, sometimes till the candle snuffed itself, trying to find the right combination.

He always destroyed them in the morning.

\----------

After cracking the Arryn seal and reading the appointment, he found himself amazed and amused by Lysa’s persistent admiration.

In Gulltown, no one knew of the scar or the story connected to it. No one knew him, and there was something strangely liberating in being so ignored.

Trying to express what was in his heart had earned him nothing but pity and scorn and so, with all the bravado of youth and the freedom of a new location, he had thrown himself into the other extreme. He lied, constantly.

It started small; forbearance was now his motto. He tested the waters, as it were, seeing what he could get away with. A small infatuation of the numbers in his books, a rumor designed to sow discord between two rival merchants. He wasn’t always successful, and sometimes he had to give up these little mental games before they truly got started, in fear of discovery. But with each plan he found his skill growing, and with each success he grew bolder. And when one of his marks—a frail old swindler of the lower ranks who had lost all compassion for those of his class when he came into his fortune—ensured the demise of his own estate based on Petyr’s advice and leniency with money lending, he truly knew what victory tasted like.

Even better, the man had come to Petyr himself to plead for some kind of help. He spun a tale of great sadness, of illness and death and illegitimate children. "It was not for whores that I needed to borrow the money," he had lied (the twitch of the lip, just barely noticeable, is what gave this one away). "It was for my sweet daughter’s dowry. Can’t you wipe your books clean?"

And Petyr had made a great show of sympathy, all the while feeling everything click into place in his mind. He tried his best to even out his voice as he explained just why he could not, while inside every nerve screamed out _victory_.

This one wasn’t as violent as the songs suggested. The only rush of blood had been that coursing through his veins as he saw the scales tip in his favor. There would be no outward signs of this triumph—to do so would mean revelation and forfeit of the game. No bruises to be found, outside of the other man’s ego. But the destruction was even greater than one life, as Petyr watched the man’s house and worth slip away with only a few words. And the spoils were there, and they were sweet even if they did not take the form of a slim-waisted maid from a great house.

He had no skill with a dagger, he knew this. He would not try again. But with words, with suggestions, he had brought a man down and risen himself in the esteem of his peers. He was beginning to see that everything in life was one great story, a massive fabrication that, if you looked closely, was poorly made—the threads all too visible. Some bought into it and suffered when they failed to realize how poor their stories were, how obvious and how easily manipulated were their threads. Others studied the patterns to succeed, as he was now.

He had benefited fiscally and personally in destroying that fool and no one knew, and that was the sweetest bit of all. It wasn’t easy, of course, but he knew he would get better. He was good at it. Besides, nothing good was ever gained with ease, there had to be effort.

He still thought about writing her, though he never did. He knew, however, that with his new-found skill he could spin a tale that even she would fall for.

 _And the gold in my pockets can’t hurt_ , he thought, as he made out the ledgers.

\----------

He had been born a nothing, heir to sheep pellets and rocks. He was still a nothing, at least in the eyes of his peers. But with age, he was discovering that there was a benefit in keeping it that way. They never expected him to be a danger, but he had spent all of his life observing his betters from afar. He had wished to be a part of that world for so long, he had studied all their movements in an effort to find acceptance. Everything they did was so precise, most of them following such strict codes and patterns, that he found no trouble at all in predicting their movements. The more he was able to insert himself and influence their behavior, the more they suffered and the higher he rose.

None of this was mentioned in the songs and he was beginning to understand why. The grand gestures and the violent outburst of passion not only made for better stories, they were the actions of those who were not in control. They were the actions of people who made themselves easy targets by letting the world see all of their weaknesses. Everyone knew their story, because they showed everything to the world. And when you knew everyone’s story, predicting the path to the end was easy, and easier still to twist in your favor.  
The real victors were those whose achievements were never visible. No one would write songs about him, he knew this now. But he also knew that they would never be able to explain how he had risen so far and so fast, nor why they should be afraid of him.

The talent to be underestimated seemed to be the greatest gift in the world, and it was the one benefit of his birth.

He no longer thought about writing to her, but she occupied his thoughts. The desire for possession was still there, but the love that had once seemed so pure and unbreakable was now tainted with revenge, even though he would not acknowledge this corruption to himself. Revenge in this case took the form of recognition, not of his feelings but of his mind, of his skill at control. He wanted her to see how much better he was than the rest of her class and that the skills of the game he played were well beyond the Starks that she loved so much. He wanted her to acknowledge that she had been as foolish as he was and that her mistakes had been just as great. He wanted her to ask him how he did it.

\----------

The appointment sent from King’s Landing had not come as a surprise. As he read it, he thought of how Hoster Tully would react when he heard the news, and he felt that rush of blood.


End file.
